St. Gallo; ’twas the place and hour appointed.  We had not been driving about above ten minutes, but out popped a little figure, pale but cross, with beard unshaved and hair uncombed, a slouched hat, and a considerable red cloak, in which was wrapped, under his arm, the fatal sword that was to revenge the highly injured Mr. Martin, painter and defendant.  I darted my head out of the coach, just ready to say, " Your servant, Mr. Martin,” and talk about the architecture of the triumphal arch that was building there; but he would not know me, and walked off.  We left him to wait for an hour, to grow very cold and very valiant the more it grew past the hour of appointment.  We were figuring all the poor creature’s huddle of thoughts, and confused hopes of victory or fame, of his unfinished pictures, or his situation upon bouncing into the next world.  You will think us strange creatures; but ’twas a pleasant sight, as we knew the poor painter was safe.  I have thought of it since, and am inclined to believe that nothing but two English could have been capable of such a jaunt.  I remember, ’twas reported in London, that the plague was at a house in the city, and all the town went to see it.

I have this instant received your letter.  Lord!  I am glad I thought of those parallel passages, since it made you translate them.  ’Tis excessively near the original; and yet, I don’t know, ’tis very easy too.-It snows here a little to-night, but it never lies but on the mountains.  Adieu!  Yours ever.

P.S.  What is the history of the theatres this winter?

(179) Sir Charles Etheridge.  “She would if She could,” was brought out at the Duke of York’s theatre in February, 1668:  Pepys, who was present, calls it “a silly, dull thing; the design and end being mighty insipid."-E.

(180) Sir Horace Mann, created a baronet in 1755.  He was appointed minister plenipotentiary from England to the court of Florence in 1740, and continued so until his death, on the 6th November 1786.-E.

145 Letter 18 To The Hon. Henry Seymour Conway, (181) Florence, March 6, 1740, N. S.

Harry, my dear, one would tell you what a monster you are, if one were not sure your conscience tells you so every time you think of me.  At Genoa, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine, I received the last letter from you; by your not writing to me since, I imagine you propose to make this a leap year.  I should have sent many a scold after you in this long interval, had I known where to have scolded; but you told me you should leave Geneva immediately.  I have despatched sundry inquiries into England after you, all fruitless.  At last drops in a chance letter to Lady Sophy Farmor, (182) from a girl at Paris, that tells her for news, Mr. Henry Conway is here.  Is he, indeed? and why was I to know it only by this scrambling way?  Well, I hate you for this neglect, but I find I love you well enough to tell you so.  But, dear now, don’t let one fall into a train of excuses and reproaches; if the god of indolence is a mightier deity with you than the god of caring for one, tell me, and I won’t dun you; but will drop your correspondence as silently as if I owed you money.